


braid in croc's clothing

by AVMabs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Special Guest: the crocodile, buccaneer's huge bow collection, its really hard for buccaneer to braid his hair when hes using the crocodile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVMabs/pseuds/AVMabs
Summary: The first day, Olivier only notices that chopping firewood is easier.  The second day, she notices that Buccaneer's hair is a mess.  The third day, she doesn't notice anything, and Miles has to point it out for her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the other fic for imaginesharks!!

The first day with the Crocodile is amazing.  Fetching firewood for the furnace has never been so easy, and the entirety of Briggs is more productive for it.  General Armstrong doesn’t quite crack a smile, because she can’t allow the men to think they can let up, but she’s certainly pleased.  

The second day is also good.  Captain Buccaneer seems to be falling into a good routine with the firewood, and he also alters the shape of a broken pipe, fixing it without the need for expensive repairs.  General Armstrong has concerns, however.  Stray hairs are slipping from his braid, and he is beginning to look something like a shoe-polishing brush.  She grabs Major Miles from the mess hall (he has finished his stew) and takes him outside.

“Captain Buccaneer.  Is he sick?”

Major Miles stares at her from under his glasses.  “I don’t think so, Sir.”

General Armstrong nods her approval.  “Good.  Tell him to braid his hair again.  It’s a mess.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ll dismiss you in a moment,” says General Armstrong, because it is enjoyable to watch Major Miles stand stock still, and it reminds her of exactly how loyal her men are.  After the moment passes, she says “dismissed”, and Major Miles’s face relaxes into something that could be a fond smile, or could simply be his face relaxing.

She hasn’t quite managed to figure it out.

She passes the two men in the break room later that day, and she is satisfied to see that Major Miles is talking to Captain Buccaneer about his hair in a relaxed way.  Relatively relaxed, anyway.  Briggs is not Central or East City, so her men do not behave like animals unless she tells them to.

On the third day, General Armstrong stands all her men in line and examines them.  Sergeant Evans hasn’t polished his boots.  Ten press-ups.  Warrant Officer Lear has spilt his breakfast on his coat.  Public humiliation and the dry-cleaning fee are punishment enough.  Lieutenant Brecht is wearing a non-regulation skin under his clothing, and it is restricting his movement.  He must bend down and touch his toes, thusly tearing the skin.

Captain Buccaneer’s hair is now akin to an angry cat’s tail. 

“Captain Buccaneer,” says General Armstrong.

“Sir,” says Captain Buccaneer.

She stares at him for a moment, because he’s roughly the size of a bear and it’s good fun to see him tremble under her glare.  “Your hair is a mess.”

“Sir.”

“One extra hour of wood-chopping.”

“Sir.”

Satisfied, General Armstrong dismisses the men.  At four o’clock, Captain Buccaneer dumps the wood into the furnace, and his hair is still a mess.  General Armstrong has more important things to do than reprimand him on his hair (she has a meeting at half past four), so she leers at him and hopes the message gets through.

It doesn’t.  She intensifies her glare and hopes it gets through to him.

Then, there is a figure next to her.  “Permission to speak with you outside, sir,” says Major Miles.

“Granted,” she says, but it is she who leads him outside.  “What is it?”

“Captain Buccaneer is very proud,” says Major Miles.

“Yes.”

“Too proud to tell anyone that he can’t braid his hair with the Crocodile.”

 _Oh._   “I understand.  Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”  She pauses.  “Dismissed.”

She storms back inside and pulls Captain Buccaneer into the dorms, sits him down on his bed, and grabs a razor and some of his bows (she notes the impressive collection on his side table, and makes a mental reminder to find his supplier before Amue’s birthday rolls around). 

“Go and wash your hair,” she orders.

“Uh… Sir,” he acquiesces, and heads into the bathroom.

General Armstrong continues to examine the bows.  She is _very_ impressed by the quality, and hopes that whomever embroiders the patterns is paid generously.  There is not much else to look at in Captain Buccaneer’s dorm other than grease and oil for his automail.  He keeps his living quarters tidy.

Captain Buccaneer comes back into the room with a white t-shirt having replaced his military garb.

“I’ll shave the top of your head,” says General Armstrong.

Captain Buccaneer is silent.

“I need you to sit down.”

“Right – yes, sir.”

He sits on the bed next to her.  She sighs.

“I need you to kneel, Captain,” she says.

He does so, and is completely still as – business-like – General Armstrong removes the hair either side of his mohawk.  When she’s done, she nods, satisfied.

“Good,” she says.  “Much better.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Captain Buccaneer.

“I’m not finished yet.”

General Armstrong picks up his hairbrush, which is cheap and wooden and the same brand as hers.  “I think you have the wrong hair texture for this type of brush,” she says, because she cannot comprehend how she, with thick, silky hair, can use the same type of hairbrush as the wiry-haired man in front of her.

“It does the job,” he says.

She squints at the brush, which seems well-loved, and then at Captain Buccaneer’s neglected hair, and decides it must do. She runs her fingers through the braid to loosen it, unapologetically tugging when she encounters tangles.  She runs the brush through it next, efficiently preparing it for a braid. 

“You have too many split ends,” she says, and then – “who layers your hair?”

“I cut my own hair,” says Captain Buccaneer.  “Not many hairdressers willing to come up to Briggs.”

“Yes,” says General Armstrong.

“Who cuts yours?”

“I haven’t cut my hair since 1900,” says General Armstrong, and imagines Buccaneer’s eyebrows raising in surprise.

She picks up the box of bows and shoves it into Captain Buccaneer’s hands.  “Choose a bow.”

She begins to braid his hair.  It’s a slow process: she is unused to braiding hair and continually undoes her work to regain uniformity.  Not for the first time, she wishes Riza Hawkeye would bring her precision up to Briggs rather than letting it fester in Central.

After 45 minutes of silence, she is finished.  “Hand me the bow,” she says, and he presses a small pink bow into her hand. 

“We’re done,” she says.  “I’ll be back in the morning.”

She stands up straight and strides towards the door, then turns.  “If _any_ of the men hear about this, I will kick you straight to Central, and you will be working for Roy Mustang until you _die_.”

Beat.

“Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” says Captain Buccaneer, and General Armstrong can’t help but feel the slightest bit of joy at the faint tremor in his voice.


End file.
